a voice crying out in the postmodern wilderness

Raw Material of the Precious Kind

Raw Material of the Precious Kind

Like a block of steel

It sits on the table, cool

Untouched by the firing furnace

Unbeaten by the smith


Like a blank of wood

Pure, rough

Without marks, pure potential

Without cut or carve


Like a road yet untouched

No potholes, no ruts

Leading to somewhere

Yet no one has traveled it yet


And so you are, my son

Your skin porcelain, unscarred

Your eyes bright and blue

Your small heart unmarred


But you are not meant for display

And though I’d keep you

I know that some day

You will leave


You will feel the heat

Bleed from the cuts

Get stuck in some ruts

Life will happen for real


But there’s something I know, son

You belong to the Smith

The Carpenter

The Guide

And as much as I’d like to keep you safe at home

I know He will shape you in His hands

And though I’ll try to protect you with mine

I have you but for a while


The fires of suffering will forge your strength

The shavings of pain will remove the old self

And the road will lead you home

So take courage, my boy

You’ll never be alone

A Firm Foundation

A Firm Foundation

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